


Run From Me

by RavenGrey



Series: Creep On Creepin' On [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, BloodPlay?, Demon Dean, Demon!Dean, Desperate Sam, Grief/Mourning, Mark of Cain, Other, it's always demons sammy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2030079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenGrey/pseuds/RavenGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Better run Sammy, ‘cause you know how this ends.” Dean murmurs softly from across the table, eyes flashing sin black and shining cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run From Me

**Author's Note:**

> This one was inspired by "Run From Me" by Timber Timbre. Edited by me and whatnot.

 

            Alone in the bunker with his brother’s cooling corpse, Sam’s heart splinters and cracks. Jagged little pieces sliver in his soft insides and shred him from the inside out even though his treacherous heart just keeps on beating.

             It gets worse with each step, each lap he makes around the bunker, each breath he sucks in as Dean grows cold on his bed.

             His throat burns like it’s full of razor blades and his eyes are hatefully dry. His heart pounds out a slow, mocking beat, safe behind his ribcage.

            He hasn’t stopped moving since he’d carried Dean in, limp and bloodied, and laid him out. He’d been so pale already, skin losing its heat and blood drying tacky on Dean’s skin.

            He expected the tears to come then, but they hadn’t, not even when he’d washed the blood out from underneath his nails. His eyes had burned like a mother, but he had stayed calm in the face of his world going up in ash.

            It’s after he tries to summon Crowley that he finally stops moving. It feels like grinding bones and shattered hopes and salt in a wound. The bunker is empty and quiet and Sam’s vision blurs as he drops into a chair, files and old books scattered out in front of him. He feels hollow and too-full at the same time and he idly traces a scar in the wood.

             He’s not sure how it got there, but he’s pretty sure they put it there.

            “God-damnit Dean.” A hot tear slips down his cheek and he makes a choked, hurt sound that feels like it’s wrenched from low in his gut. His lips are mashed together in a tight line and his hands shake.

            Sam’s almost surprised; because he’s pretty damn sure he has nothing left to give, but sitting alone in the bunker, his brother’s blood drying stiff on his skin, Sam weeps.

            The sounds echo and Sam covers his face with a hand as tears leak down his cheeks and wounded animal sounds slip past the tightness in his throat.

            It takes Sam a bit to cry himself out and by the time he’s done his throat hurts. He shuffles into the kitchen and mechanically gets a glass of water. He gets half of it down and dumps the rest. He’s about to pray for Cas, for anyone really at this point, when he hears the sound of slow, easy footsteps.

            He knows those footsteps. He knows that gait. Something deep rooted and primal twists inside his chest, freezing Sam’s blood and punching the air out of his lungs.

             He’s got Ruby’s knife out before his mind can catch up, try to rationalize with him. It could be Crowley, or Cas, his brain offers soothingly, but he knows.

            He knows who it is. Course he does. When he comes back into the bunker’s main-room Dean’s standing in the doorway, mark of Cain standing out an ugly, vivid red on his forearm.

             It’s somehow worse than the stain of dark red blood that marks where Metatron had buried a knife deep in his brother’s stomach and Sam hurts down to his very bones.

            “Metatron dammit, actually.” Dean says easily, and it’s so Dean that Sam _hurts_.

            “Whatever you are, you have 10 seconds to get out of my brother before I make you regret your very existence.” Sam utters lowly, threat clinging to every line of his body.

            “That’s gonna be kinda hard to do kiddo.” Dean takes a couple of steps into the room, the first blade held casually at his side like it belongs there. Sam’s so bone tired and worn down that he barely reacts in time to avoid the hatefully precise arc of Dean’s swing.

            Sammy is fast, but Dean is awake and his blood is _singing_ and Sam can’t get out of the way in time.

             The first blade catches him in the side and Dean laughs, low and warm and _Not Dean_ as blood wells and gushes down his side. It stains the jawbone and Sam’s shirt a vivid scarlet. Sam slaps a hand over the gash and puts some distance between himself and Dean, body coming alive with pain and adrenaline.

            Dean tilts his wrist, watching Sammy’s blood shine wet and red, and brings the blade to his lips. Black to desperate hazel, Dean flicks his tongue over the edge of the blade. A husky purr rumbles up from his chest and Sam’s stomach does a hot-sick flip as he distances himself, mind going a mile a minute.

            “Better run Sammy, ‘cause you know how this ends.” Dean murmurs softly from across the table, eyes flashing sin black and shining cold.

            Sam runs.    

            


End file.
